


Worthless

by AlwaysSpoopy



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, F/M, Fluff, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:40:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26493541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysSpoopy/pseuds/AlwaysSpoopy
Summary: You can't fight. You can't hunt. You can barely sew.And after Blackwater? You weren't sure why they kept you around at all.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 59





	Worthless

It was strange, feeling like this on a day that was otherwise so incredibly perfect. The sun had been shining, a few fluffy clouds made their way lazily across the sky, the camp had been at rest. Yet there you were, curled up against a tree on the outskirts of camp, your head on your knees and shaky breaths brushing past the hem of your skirt. 

The day had started off fine enough; waking up with Arthur beside you, grabbing a cup of coffee from the percolator and chatting with the other women. It was only later, after the some of the men had left for the day and as you sat alone, darning Micha’s worn shirt, that you were sent spiraling. 

Hell, it had only been a little bit of blood, a few small spots that would have come out with relative ease, when your mind was brought back to that day. 

Gunshots. Screams. Splashes of blood on the dusty cobblestones in Blackwater. Jenny lying in the dirt. Losing track of Mac and Sean. Davey dying a few days later, up there in the snow.

You had frozen, unintentionally letting the small bloodstain grow larger. It was only Micah’s angry shout that had shocked you out of your stupor. He had come barreling over, an angry, hungover mess, and railed into you for ruining his shirt. As if he hadn’t gotten plenty of blood on it before. 

Suddenly, and without bothering to listen to the end of Micah’s useless ranting, you darted from the camp and into the trees. Away from the others. Into the peace and quiet that only the woods could provide. 

There, you really and truly broke. A long, anguished sob echoed through the forest as you crumpled against the trunk of a large oak. The bark scratched at your back through the thin fabric of your blouse, there would likely be a few more holes to sew up later, but you didn’t care. You deserved this. The scratches were just punishment for not having talked them out of the damn ferry job in the first place. 

You should have  _ known _ . You  _ always _ had a gut feeling when jobs would go south. You couldn’t rob, and you couldn’t fight to save your life, but you could  _ always _ pick out potential flaws in the plans with relative ease. But this time had been different. Everyone had been so blinded by Micah’s promises of a large haul, blinded by finally getting enough money to live off of for  _ years _ , that you had missed…  _ something _ . 

And now two people were buried and two more were probably dead in a ditch somewhere. The rest of you were on the run  _ again _ , not knowing if you would make it to the next week. And it was all because _ you _ didn’t see it. Hosea had been against it. Hell, even Arthur had said no. But  _ you  _ had said they should go ahead. 

And now? 

Now you were convinced,  _ absolutely positive _ , that if you had sided with Arthur and Hosea, your friends would still be alive and safe in New Austin.

_ It was your fault. _ And people were evidently so angry with you that they were yelling about tiny bloodstains. 

You let out another gasping sob and buried your face in your hands. Maybe it was better if you just stayed here. Out in the woods where no one would find you. You could just sit and watch the birds until your body just… stopped. 

It would be for the best… right? 

The camp would no longer be burdened by you. You would no longer have sudden flashbacks of that night, no longer wake up in a cold sweat after seeing your friends' faces in your dreams. Everything would be better for everyone.

_ Right _ ?

You weren’t able to tell exactly how long you had been there, sitting in the same position and staring blankly at a tree in front of you. Waiting.

When suddenly, as the sun began to sink in the sky, you were jolted out of your stupor by the sound of a cracking branch behind you.

“There ya are,” came the familiar, husky voice from behind you. You didn’t turn to face him, instead keeping your eyes trained to the tree in front of you. Maybe if you ignored him, he would go away and leave you to wither away in peace. “You alright there, darlin’?”

His hat landed unceremoniously on the ground, and you heard the sounds of him sitting in the grass next to you. His long legs were stretched out in front of him, his dirty boots crossed at the ankles, and soon enough the  _ smell _ of him reached you.

You crumpled your nose, there was no way you could ignore him now. He smelled like you felt. Like horse shit. 

“… yeah… yeah, I’m fine Arthur,” you grumbled, turning away from him. It wasn’t just the smell, you literally couldn’t bear to look at him, lest you start crying again. And you did not have the energy for that at the moment.

You heard the sound of a striking match and soon the familiar smell of tobacco mixed with his stench. It was still unpleasant, but it was better. He cleared his throat and took a drag before he began to speak, without looking at you, “Now, I may be big and dumb, but I shoa as hell ain’t blind.”

Unintentionally, a loud sigh left your lips. You hated it when he talked about himself like that, and even when you were down you would not let him do that to himself. “You ain’t dumb, Arthur.” 

He chuckled and took another drag. “And  _ you _ ain’t a good liar. What’s goin on witchu?”

Another sigh. The light of the setting sun was coloring the world a light sepia, dulling the colors of the forest in a strangely beautiful way. Making everything duller, quieter. Matching your current state of mind. “It’s nothing… really,” you murmured, the first word catching slightly in your throat.

“Now, I know that ain’t true,” came his grumble from beside you. You didn’t want to talk about it, not with him. Not with anyone, really, but especially not with him. If it weren’t for him vouching for you, _ keeping you safe _ , you were sure that you probably would have already been shot for the mishap in Blackwater. You couldn’t place any of the guilt you were feeling on his shoulders.

After a moment of silence, you felt his arm stretch around your shoulders, and soon felt his hand reaching up to stroke your hair. It reminded you of how he treated his horses, a bit. Calming, soothing.

You sniffed and rubbed at sore eyes, still keeping them trained carefully away from him, “Really, Arthur. ‘m fine.” You nudged his hand with your head, prompting him to pull away. 

He didn’t.

The stubborn bastard.

Instead, he brought your head closer to his and gently moved you to lean on his shoulder. Again, you inhaled the scent that, although mixed with horse shit, was distinctly his. The comforting, musky smell of  _ home _ . And then, you were surprised by the feeling of his lips at the top of your head, through your hair. 

“It’s your eyes,” he said quietly, into the top of your head, lips pressed gently against your dirty locks. “I only seen you cry a few times, but it was more’n enough for me to know what it looks like. ‘N more’n enough for me to know I never wanna see it again.”

You sighed, knowing you had been caught, and tried to pull away again. “Arthur…”

“‘n’ I know you ain’t gotta tell me, ‘n’ I ain’t gonna force ya,” with a gentle kiss, he acquiesced, and pulled away from your head, gently turned your face toward him. This time, you let him direct you, and you were soon gazing into concerned teal eyes. “But I’m here... If ya need me.”

Another sigh. This is what you had been trying to avoid since he sat down next to you. Looking him in the eyes, seeing this big, bad man care so much,  _ so deeply,  _ for you? It was too much. Tears started welling up, and you felt a lump begin to form in your throat again. It was hard enough to push it down under normal circumstances, and now? Now you were utterly exhausted. “It’s just… it should have been nothing,” you began, voice hoarse and barely above a whisper as your tears began to flow. 

This time, however, they were not combined with heaving, shaking sobs. This time, they were quiet. This time, Arthur was there to reach out and brush them away.

“I was… I was just tryin’ to darn some shirts. Stabbed my finger and got blood all over ‘em. It just… it reminded me of-” your words faded into a shaky breath. You couldn’t say it out loud.

The image of bloodied bodies, flashed before your eyes. The sound of gunshots and screams echoing in your ears. Jenny. The Callendars. Sean. “And then Micah comes over and starts goin’ off about how I ruined his damn shirt… ‘n’ I just… I felt  _ worthless _ . I can’t rob. I can’t fight. I can barely sew. I... just… Why the hell do you even keep me around?”

Arthur scoffed and again wrapped a strong arm around your shoulders. “Now, you know that ain’t true,” he said, softer than you were used to hearing him. He leaned his head on yours, brushing your forehead with his shaggy hair. “Blackwater… well, ain’t none of us really shoa what happened back there. But whatever it was, it shoa as hell weren’t your fault.” He paused, reaching over to your shoulder to give it a comforting squeeze. “‘n’ so you can’t rob or fight?  _ Maybe _ that’s just what we need ‘round here.”

He jostled your shoulder lightly as you continued looking at the ground. “Somebody like you, who ain’t goin out and fightin’ and robbin’. Someone who actually _ thinks through  _ our hairbrained plans? You keep us all together. Hell, we probably would’a already robbed ourselves into our graves if it weren’t for you ‘n’ Hosea. You… you keep us grounded. Keep us from lettin’ our heads get too big. Darlin’, you help keep us  _ safe _ .”

“Arthur, that ain’t...” you started, before being abruptly cut off by him. He sat up and turned to face you, no longer leaning against the large tree.

“Now, you never let me talk bad about myself, so what makes you think I would go ‘n’ let you do the same?” he scolded gently, looking into your eyes.

“Arthur, this is different,” you started, before again being interrupted by the man in front of you.

“Nah, it ain’t and you know it,” he scolded, holding you by your shoulders and slightly shaking you as if to beat in the point. “You take such good care of all of us, of  _ me _ , and I shoa as hell ain’t gonna let you think ‘bout yourself like that.”

You started to speak again, but stopped. It was useless arguing with the man, he was literally stubborn as a mule. And he wasn’t  _ wrong _ , exactly. Sure, you couldn’t rob, and you couldn't fight, but you could make a hell of a mean argument and plan your way out of any predicament. It wasn’t always flashy and noticeable, but it was definitely useful. “Fine,” you finally conceded, with a scoff. You would get up, you would pull yourself out of the hole you were in, and you would be thankful every second that Arthur was there to help you. “But first, I really am going to need you to take a bath. You smell like horse shit.”


End file.
